IB 


•M- 


lifornia 

ional 

ility 


UBRAK* 


CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  -  SAN  DIKGO 

by 
FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


MR.   JOHN  C.  ROSE 

donor 


EXTRACTS  FROM 
THE  DIARY  OF 
MORITZ   SVENGALI 


Translated  and  Edited  by  Alfred  Welch 


Be  just  to  all  mankind,  my  friend  ; 
They  seek  the  same  as  you  ; 
Their  different  manners  but  depend 
On  chance  and  point  of  view. 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY   HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1897 


COPYRIGHT,  1897, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  &  CO. 


THE  MERSHON  COMPANY  PRESS, 
RAHWAY,  N.  J. 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  pages  have  been  selected 
from  the  private  diary  of  the  famous 
master,  Moritz  Svengali,  which,  upon 
his  death,  came  into  the  possession  of 
his  aunt  Marta  Adler,  and  was  intrusted 
by  her  to  the  editor  with  many  tearful 
injunctions  as  to  the  care  with  which  the 
precious  memento  was  to  be  preserved. 

As  is  well  known,  this  incomparable 
musician  died  suddenly  at  Drury  Lane 
Theater  just  as  he  and  Mme.  Svengali 
were  about  to  begin  their  series  of  con- 
certs, which,  in  the  season  of  185-,  the 
London  public  had  so  eagerly  antici- 
pated. 

iii 


iv 


It  will  be  remembered  that  Svengali 
was  too  ill  to  conduct  the  concert  as 
usual  on  what  was  to  be  the  opening 
night;  but  took  his  place  in  one  of  the 
boxes  from  which  he  could  easily  be 
seen  by  his  wife,  who  was  so  devoted  to 
him  that  she  never  sang  except  in  his 
presence. 

No  one  who,  on  that  memorable  night, 
breathlessly  awaited  the  first  notes  of 
her  marvelous  voice,  will  forget  the 
disappointment  of  the  audience  when 
Mme.  Svengali  broke  down  immedi- 
ately upon  her  appearance,  nor  the  hor- 
ror and  sympathy  that  succeeded  when 
it  was  discovered  that  the  cause  of  her 
failure  was  that,  on  glancing  toward  her 
husband's  box,  instead  of  meeting  his 
look  of  encouragement,  she  saw  his  life- 
less body  leaning  against  the  rail. 

It  is  probably  unnecessary  to  say  that 


the  whole  diary  is  not  given;  but  only 
such  parts  as  throw  light  upon  the  most 
interesting  portions  of  the  life  of  this 
remarkable  man  and  best  serve  to  illus- 
trate his  character  and  genius.  Some 
portions  would  be  of  no  interest  to  the 
public,  others  are  devoted  to  private 
family  matters,  and  other  pages,  appar- 
ently written  under  the  influence  of  pas- 
sion, are  very  disconnected  and  have 
many  lines  crossed  out;  as  if  the  writer 
had,  in  a  calmer  mood,  repented  of  his 
anger. 

As  it  is  almost  impossible  to  para- 
phrase in  English  many  of  the  idioms  of 
the  Polish  Hebrew  dialect,  it  has  been 
thought  best  to  abandon  all  attempts  to 
preserve  the  peculiarities  of  the  author's 
style  or  the  forms  of  expression  of  his 
native  tongue,  in  which  the  diary  is 
written. 


THE  DIARY  OF 

MORITZ   SVENGALI. 


February  $th,  185-. 

TO-MORROW  I  leave  for  Paris.  It  is 
good  to  turn  one's  back  upon  the  old 
life  of  Porlisz.  Yes,  and  even  upon  that 
of  Vienna  and  Leipsic.  The  shadow  of 
the  Ghetto  is  over  them  all,  for  me,  and 
the  smell  of  the  long,  narrow  streets  with 
their  overhanging  gables,  that  shut  out 
what  little  light  might  come  down  but 
for  them. 

If  the  mother  and  the  sisters  and  all 
the  others  were  but  away,  I  should  never 


2  THE  DIARY  OF 

again  travel  the  road  I  am  to  take;  after 
I  am  once  gone,  no  matter  whither  the 
way  ahead  might  lead,  I  would  go  on  and 
on,  further  and  further  away  from  all  the 
dark  and  dingy  cities  and  the  more 
gross  and  brutal  provinces,  with  their 
stupid  prejudices  and  their  ridiculous 
grandees  and  their  contemptuous  petty 
officials,  clanking  their  swords  and  jing- 
ling their  spurs,  and  insulting  for  very 
wantonness  every  Jew  who  walks  up- 
right in  their  presence.  Oh!  if  only  I 
could  come  back  and  trample  upon  them 
all — and,  if  not,  never  come  back  at  all; 
but  send  for  the  mother  and  the  rest  to 
live  in  some  more  friendly  region,  if  there 
is  such,  where  at  least  one  need  not  cringe 
to  escape  insult. 


MOR1TZ  SVENGALL 


February  6th. 

WHEN  the  train  passes  the  curve  be- 
yond the  river,  I  shall  see  the  last  of 
Porlisz.  Not  perhaps  the  last  of  the 
church  spires  and  the  towers  of  the 
public  buildings — those  you  can  see  until 
they  are  hidden  by  the  hills;  but  of  the 
Porlisz  that  I  have  known — the  group  of 
low  houses  between  the  cemetery  and 
the  marshy  land  near  the  river,  where 
there  is  nothing  to  break  the  dull  monot- 
ony of  the  dark  roofs.  Truly  I  never 
realized  until  now  the  advantages  of  hav- 
ing a  birthplace  it  is  so  easy  to  leave. 
Even  from  this  distance,  where  one  can- 
not perceive  the  dirt  and  squalor,  it  is 
not  hard  to  say  farewell.  One  travels 
very  lightly  when  he  has  not  even  regrets 


4  THE  DIARY  OF 

to  bind  him  to  his  old  home.  As  for  me, 
all  that  I  leave  has  been  repulsive  and 
degrading;  only  my  music  has  been  my 
inspiration,  and  that  I  carry  with  me,  to 
Paris,  to  London,  to  America  if  I  will; 
wherever  I  wish  to  travel.  Already  the 
old  life  seems  far  away.  I  wonder  if  it 
is  in  truth  all  left  behind,  or  shall  I 
awake  and  find  it  with  me  yet? 

The  coach  is  so  full  that  I  can  scarcely 
move  my  hand  to  write.  The  one  in  front 
contains  Baron  von  Modlin  andhisbrother, 
no  others.  I  was  about  to  take  one  of  the 
vacant  seats,  when  the  guard  slammed  the 
door  and  ordered  me  to  crowd  into  this 
place  where  all  the  seats  were  already 
filled,  and  Frau  Roepell  had  to  take  her 
child  upon  her  lap  to  make  room  for  me. 

We  have  just  changed  for  the  train  on 
the  main  line.  I  was  a  little  ahead  of 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  5 

the  others,  and  was  the  first  to  enter  an 
empty  coach.  Baron  von  Modlin  and 
his  brother  have  been  hurried  into  the 
seats  opposite  me.  They  have  been 
complaining  bitterly  to  one  another  that 
a  coach  was  not  kept  free  for  them,  as  at 
Porlisz.  It  seems  that  the  places  they 
wished  to  secure  were  reserved  for  Count 
Chelm.  Ah,  my  friends!  you  should  not 
have  passed  beyond  the  bounds  of  your 
province  if  you  wished  to  preserve  the 
flattering  consideration  accorded  to  local 
magnates.  My  little  flageolet  here  in 
my  coat  pocket  may  yet  prove  a  better 
claim  to  recognition  than  your  tumble- 
down schloss  on  the  hill  above  Porlisz. 
After  all,  it  is  a  matter  of  perspective. 
The  schloss  doubtless  seems  much 
smaller  viewed  from  Paris,  than  when 
one  looks  up  from  the  streets  of  the 
Judenstrasse. 


THE  DIARY  OF 


March  i8th. 

AND  this  is  Paris,  the  dream  of  my  life. 
No,  not  the  dream.  How  could  I  dream 
of  this  in  Porlisz?  But  this  is  the  reali- 
zation of  all  my  fancies — my  ideals — the 
thing  I  longed  for  and  could  not  tell. 
It  is  good,  so  good  that  I  cannot  yet 
credit  it,  to  be  away  from  the  old  life. 
The  mother  was  dear,  and  Marta  and 
the  rest;  but,  oh!  the  narrow  walls  and 
the  sordidness,  and  worse  than  all,  the 
contempt — the  scorn — the  indignities — 
always — always! 

Here  the  people  are  courteous,  even 
if  they  are  strangers  and  careless.  To- 
day I  spoke  to  a  man  on  the  Boulevard. 
I  asked  him  the  way  to  the  Rue  Casti- 
glione.  He  was  a  professional  or  an 
official,  by  his  appearance.  I  almost 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  7 

knew  the  way,  but  stopped  him  because 
he  looked  friendly — and  so  he  was.  He 
answered  me  with  as  much  consideration 
as  though  I  were  M.  le  Maire  or  a  friend 
of  his,  which  I  was  for  the  moment;  and 
he  touched  his  hat. 

The  day  before  I  left  Porlisz,  I  spoke 
to  Franz  Fredro,  the  steward  of  the 
Radinski  estates.  I  told  him  of  some 
changes  which  were  needed  in  the  house 
we  occupied  on  the  estate  lands,  and  tried 
to  arrange  that  they  should  be  made 
when  I  was  gone.  He  answered  con- 
temptuously, and  shouted  "  Get  out  of 
my  way!  "  and  the  dirt  thrown  back  from 
his  horse's  feet  covered  me  as  he  almost 
rode  me  down  before  I  could  stand  aside. 
But  he  is  a  swine  and  a  boor — a  servant 
of  an  excellency,  and  knows  nothing  of 
manners,  and,  I  hope,  will  never  know 
Paris. 


THE  DIARY  OF 


March  2jd. 

THIS  has  been  a  red-letter  day  for  me. 
I  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little  alone 
among  all  the  life  and  stir  about  me, 
especially  as  I  have  not  yet  found  any 
opportunity  to  have  myself  heard,  when 
I  met  Gecko — Gecko,  just  the  same  as 
when  I  first  found  him  playing  for  copper 
coins  on  the  streets  of  Vienna,  only 
better  dressed  and  not  so  thin.  I  have 
not  seen  him  since  he  left  us  there,  and 
did  not  know  he  had  come  to  Paris.  He 
is  playing  at  the  Gymnase,  and  plays 
much  better  than  he  did.  I  am  to  give 
him  some  more  lessons,  and  we  will  play 
together.  It  is  good  to  meet  a  friend 
again — yes,  even  if  he  is  part  of  the  old 
despised  provincial  life.  He  lodges  in 
the  Impasse  des  Ramoneurs,  and  I  have 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  9 

found  lodgings  not  far  off,  in  the  Rue 
Tire-Liard.  I  must  not  spend  so  much, 
and  must  find  an  engagement  very  soon. 
I  have  not  been  able  as  yet  to  settle 
down  to  real  life  here,  and  what  I  brought 
with  me  is  almost  gone.  Well — it  is  the 
reaction  after  what  I  have  left.  Soon 
the  dazzle  will  be  gone,  and  my  eyes  will 
become  accustomed  to  the  brighter  light. 
I  wonder  how  it  would  seem  to  be  here 
free  from  all  thought  of  the  morrow,  like 
the  students  I  saw  dancing  last  Sunday 
in  the  garden  at  "  la  loge  du  garde 
Champetre."  I  also  wonder  if  the  danc- 
ing keeps  up  when  they  are  no  longer  stu- 
dents, and  have  families  to  look  after  like 
other  men,  and  perhaps  less  to  do  it  with. 
If  not,  they  are  all  the  more  wise  to  do 
their  dancing  now.  If  they  learn  the 
step,  they  may  be  able  to  keep  it  up  even 
after  the  music  stops. 


10  THE  DIARY  OF 

March  28th. 

I  AM  never  done  walking  the  streets, 
upright,  with  none  to  scoff  and  insult  me 
because  I  do  not  cringe  and  make  salutes 
where  none  will  be  returned  by  the 
mighty  little  grandees  who  expect  them 
as  their  due — dogs  who  have  nothing  but 
their  evil  envy  of  genius,  and  the  power 
to  taunt  those  who  know  more  than  they 
ever  dreamed.  There  are  aristocrats 
and  excellencies  here — yes;  but  they 
are  not  so  near  to  one  as  at  Porlisz  nor 
even  at  Vienna  or  Frankfort,  and  there- 
fore not  so  offensive;  or  perhaps  they 
are  too  busy  and  interested  in  their  own 
lives  to  go  out  of  their  way  to  worry; 
besides,  I  think  they  are  of  a  better 
spirit. 

I  have  met  a  comfortable  Englishman. 
Not  exactly  an  Englishman;  but  one,  I 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  II 

think,  of  the  Scotland  part.  He  is  not 
arrogant  nor  supercilious,  although  some- 
what abrupt,  but  I  have  learned  that  this 
is  with  them  often  merely  a  cover  to  hide 
their  lack  of  polish,  and  means  nothing 
unkind  underneath.  I  was  playing  in  the 
Jardin  Bullier.  I  told  Gecko  I  had  spent 
all  my  money,  and  he  found  me  an 
engagement  through  his  acquaintance 
with  the  leader  of  the  orchestra.  There 
was  a  member  ill,  and  so  I  took  his  place. 
I  was  faint  when  it  was  over,  for  I  had 
waited  for  something  to  eat  until  I  had 
my  pay.  Another  of  the  company  intro- 
duced me  to  the  Englishman,  as  he  stood 
near  our  table.  The  man  who  introduced 
me  to  him  will  take  me  to  his  studio  to- 
morrow. He  is  an  artist.  His  name  is 
McAllister.  He  has  his  studio  with  two 
friends — real  Englishmen — who  walked 
away  with  him. 


THE  DIARY  OF 


March  joth. 

I  HAVE  been  to  the  studio  of  the 
Scotch-Englishman.  He  was  there  with 
his  two  friends.  Their  studio  is  in  the 
Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts,  and  is  large 
and  fine  for  a  studio  in  the  Latin 
Quarter — very  different  indeed  from 
some.  It  is  light  and  high,  not  low  and 
mean  like  my  den  in  the  Rue  Tire-Liard. 
There  is  room  to  move  and  live,  and 
they  have  a  piano.  They  are  much  more 
courteous  than  most  English — almost, 
sometimes,  like  the  French;  but  then 
too,  they  are  a  little  like  the  Germans 
and  only  see  the  good  of  their  own. 
Perhaps  it  is  well  to  be  content  with  one's 
own  ways  and  belongings,  if  one  is  not  so 
well  satisfied  that  he  can  learn  nothing 
new. 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  13 


April  7th. 

WHY  have  those  three  artists  so  much 
that  they  know  not  how  to  use,  and  I  so 
little?  Even  Gecko  could  do  better. 
Some  day  I  too  will  have,  and  then  I  will 
show  them  how  I  hate  their  self-satisfied 
ways  and  their  taking  everything  for 
granted  that  they  should  have  it,  while 
I — I  have  to  work  hard  for  every  little 
advance;  and,  when  I  have  accomplished, 
I  am  despised.  Why  will  they  not  treat 
me  also  as  one  of  themselves?  To-day 
Gecko  and  I  went  to  their  studio  in  the 
Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts.  I  went  to 
take  Gecko,  who  wished  to  visit  it  and  to 
play  upon  their  piano.  We  found  them 
all  at  work,  but  not  too  busy  to  hear 
Chopin,  and  so  we  gave  them  something 
that  I  do  not  believe  they  had  even  in 


14  THE  DIARY  OF 

their  own  homes  which  they  seem  to  so 
strangely  regret.  While  we  played,  a 
girl  entered.  She  was  a  model  for 
Durien,  a  sculptor  in  the  same  building. 
She  was  an  English  girl  and  most  beauti- 
ful. Such  as  I  have  never  seen  before. 
I  wonder  if  all  English  girls  are  like  that. 
And  yet  they  say  she  is  not  altogether 
English  either.  It  seems  that  the 
English  is  a  good  stock  on  which  to 
graft  some  other  stock.  A  little  Scotch 
or  Irish  or  almost  any  other  strain  won- 
derfully improves  the  individual.  The 
girl's  name  is  Trilby — Trilby  O'Ferrall. 
She  is  tall  and  straight  and  slender,  and 
her  voice — I  cannot  describe  it.  It  is 
like  an  organ,  clear  and  rich  and  strong. 
But  when  she  sings — she  thinks  she  can 
sing — oh,  but  she  makes  horrible  work! 
She  does  not  know  that  there  are  even 
two  notes. 


MORITZ  SVENGALL  15 

After  she  had  gone,  one  of  the  English- 
men, the  smallest,  whom  they  call  "  Little 
Billee  "  (the  third  is  very  tall  and  strong 
and  they  call  him  "  Taffy  "),  the  little  one 
played  for  us  the  air  that  the  girl  had 
tried  to  sing — they  call  it  "Ben  Bolt" — 
and  Gecko  and  I  played  it  afterward. 
It  is  a  simple  melody — a  plain  folk  song. 

I  must  see  that  girl  and  hear  her  speak 
again.  Her  voice  is  a  grand  instrument 
in  the  house  of  a  bourgeois  who  knows 
nothing  of  music.  If  only  I  had  that 
voice  instead  of  my  poor  little  flageolet, 
which  has  been  more  than  ever  inade- 
quate for  me  since  I  have  heard  her 
speak! 


1 6  THE  DIARY  Of 


April  2Oth. 

I  HAVE  been  again  to  the  Place  St. 
Anatole  des  Arts.  The  Scotch-English- 
man would  be  quite  companionable  but 
for  his  friends.  The  English  girl  was 
there  again,  and  she  loves  the  little 
artist.  I  could  see  it  almost  from  the 
first.  They  are  at  heart  aristocrats  or, 
what  is  much  worse,  worshipers  of  the 
aristocrats,  and  have  all,  and  I  nothing. 
She  does  not  understand  music,  which  is 
the  only  means  I  have  of  expressing 
myself,  and  so  I  am  shut  off  and  must 
stand  by  and  see  them  enjoy  all  her  com- 
pany and  attention.  They  do  not  under- 
stand music  either,  and  she  spends  her 
time  with  them  while  I  could  play  with 
her  voice  like  on  a  flute,  and  she  will  npt 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  I? 

attend  to  me  when  the  little  artist  is  near 
to  look  upon.  To-day,  in  play,  I  seized 
him  by  the  arms  and  held  him  until  the 
large  man — Taffy — pinned  my  arms  to  my 
side  and  almost  crushed  the  bones.  I 
cannot  play  to-night.  I  have  no  patience 
to  stand  anything  when  I  think  of  that 
girl's  voice  and  of  her.  Honorine,  whom 
I  have  been  teaching,  I  can  no  longer 
tolerate — to-day  I  sent  her  away. 


THE  DIARY  OF 


May  1st. 

TO-DAY  I  have  seen  the  mysteries  of 
an  Englishman's  bath — two  of  them.  I 
came  this  morning  in  upon  both  Little 
Billee  and  Taffy  as  they  were  trying  to 
get  themselves  clean — their  daily  prac- 
tice as  I  am  told.  It  is  a  habit  that 
requires  opportunity.  I  wonder  how 
they  would  pursue  it  in  the  residences  of 
the  Judenstrasse.  That  is  not  a  good 
source  from  which  to  inherit  the  fashion 
of  playing  with  soap  and  water  daily. 
I  "chaffed"  them,  as  my  Englishmen 
call  it,  and  laughed  at  them;  but,  ah, 
messieurs — your  Bohemia  is  very  far 
from  the  real  land.  It  is  only  in  the 
provinces.  And  then  again,  Bohemia  is 
very  far  from  the  land  of  despair,  which 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  19 

is  beyond  all  the  countries  known  to 
your  geographers;  and  it  is  a  long,  long 
journey  from  that  land  through  all  the 
provinces  of  Bohemia  to  the  land  of  suc- 
cess, where  I  mean  to  live  some  day. 

Last  night  everything  seemed  against 
me.  To-day  I  have  hope.  It  all  came 
suddenly  and  by  accident.  I  was  on  my 
way  to  the  studio  in  the  Place  St.  Ana- 
tole  des  Arts,  and  met  the  English  girl 
coming  down  the  stairs  and  crying  with 
pain  in  her  head.  I  made  her  sit  down  in 
the  studio,  and  soon  charmed  away  her 
pain  with  a  few  simple  passes.  It  is 
easy  with  her,  for  she  is  docile  and  a 
good  subject.  Even  Little  Billee  could 
not  make  her  look  at  him  when  she  is  in 
that  sleep.  Then  she  is  mine — all  mine; 
and  all  the  little  Englishmen  and  the  big 
Englishmen  cannot  take  her  from  me. 


20  THE  DIARY  OF 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  her  voice 
or  herself  that  has  spoiled  my  taste  for 
all  other  music.  If  I  find  her  with  the 
pain  in  her  head  again,  she  will  be  mine 
until  she  is  well  and,  perhaps,  who 
knows — she  may  come  to  think  of  me  and 
not  of  the  little  artist. 


MORITZ  SVENGALI. 


September  nth. 

I  HAVE  seen  Trilby  again  to-day.  If 
she  would  only  look  at  me  as  she  does  at 
Little  Billee;  if  she  would  only  be  ill 
again  so  that  I  might  charm  away  the 
pain  !  I  do  not  know  why  I  want  the 
pain  to  come  again  now.  Is  it  so  that  I 
may  have  a  chance  to  help  her,  or  to  take 
her  away  from  him  ? 

There  is  a  painting  I  saw  to-day  in  a 
shop  window  near  the  Boulevard  des 
Italiens.  It  is  entitled  "In  Love  and 
War,  all  is  fair.'*  Claude  Bertholet,  who 
was  with  the  English  army  in  the  East, 
says  it  is  one  of  their  sayings,  and  is  their 
excuse  for  anything  they  may  desire  to 
do  when  they  have  the  power. 


22  THE  DIARY  OF 

I  wonder  if  it  is  not  all  fair  for  me 
also — In  love  and  war  ? — I  would  not  have 
doubted  if  it  had  been  Honorine;  but 
with  her — it  is  different. 


MORITZ  SVENGALL  33 


October  isf. 

THERE  is  a  reward  for  waiting.  I  have 
tasted  some  of  the  sweets  of  success, 
and  they  pay  for  years  of  work.  Last 
night  was  the  night  of  my  concert.  I 
have  already  played  at  two  or  three 
grand  concerts  with  Gecko;  but  last 
night  was  my  own.  The  audience  did 
not  care  whence  I  came,  nor  who  I  was, 
but  every  number  was  encored,  and  the 
last  again  and  again.  This  is  what  I 
have  imagined  and  dreamed  of.  I  am  to 
repeat  it  next  week. 

In  the  fourth  row  to  the  right  was 
Baron  von  Modlin.  Of  course  he  did 
not  know  me.  He  was  introduced  to 
me  after  the  concert  was  over.  He  said 
he  understood  I  was  from  Poland,  and 


24  THE  DIARY  OF 

that  he  also  was  from  that  country.  I 
asked  him  from  what  town,  and  he  said 
from  Porlisz.  I  did  not  tell  him  I  was 
quite  familiar  with  the  aspect  of  the 
schloss  from  the  window  of  my  attic  in 
the  Judenstrasse.  We  did  not,  however, 
dine  together  at  Porlisz,  as  we  did  last 
night  at  Durand's. 

Besides  the  applause,  there  is  the 
tangible  reward  of  money  enough  and  to 
spare  in  one's  pocket.  That  is  not  per- 
haps so  intoxicating  at  the  moment;  but 
it  lasts  over  to  the  next  day.  I  have 
fitted  myself  out  from  head  to  foot  and 
will  visit  our  friends  in  the  Place  St. 
Anatole  des  Arts.  Ah — this  is  life,  to 
walk  down  the  Boulevard  on  such  a 
morning,  with  the  memory  of  success  in 
one's  mind  and  the  tribute  of  genius  in 
one's  pocket.  I  wonder  how  many  of 
those  who  pass  know  what  it  means  to 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  2$ 

walk  upright,  instead  of  cringing  along 
in  the  memory  of  the  days  when  the 
public  promenades  were  forbidden  to 
one's  race;  and  how  sweet  the  tradition 
of  the  "Wheel"  (that  it  takes  more 
than  one  generation  to  forget)  makes  it 
to  dress  as  one  pleases. 


THE  DIARY  OF 


October  loth. 

WHEN  I  see  Trilby  and  find  her  so 
engrossed  in  the  little  artist,  all  my  good 
will  and  happiness  vanish,  and  I  say 
things  that  it  fills  me  with  shame  and 
disgust  to  remember.  I  am  eaten  up 
with  jealousy,  and  cannot  control  my 
tongue. 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  2^ 


December  2$th, 

LAST  night  I  met  Gecko  at  the  Gym- 
nase,  and  after  our  engagements  were 
over,  we  strolled  together  across  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde  and  at  last  up  the 
Rue  de  la  Madeleine.  We  were  occupied 
with  the  fine  night,  and  the  holiday 
throng  and  all  the  stir  of  Paris  around 
us,  so  that  we  did  not  notice  which  way 
we  went  until  we  were  already  almost 
upon  the  steps  of  the  Madeleine  itself. 
The  crowd  almost  carried  us  into  the 
building  before  we  had  time  to  draw 
back.  Our  three  friends  of  the  Place  St. 
Anatole  des  Arts  passed  us  and  entered 
the  church.  Gecko  and  I  stood  back  in 
a  recess  near  the  door  until  the  people 
should  pass  sufficiently  to  allow  us  to 


28  THE  DIARY  OF 

return.  Before  we  could  force  our  way 
against  the  crowd,  the  great  organ  be- 
gan. Gecko  was  spell-bound.  I  found 
he  did  not  wish  to  leave.  Indeed  he 
would  have  entered  the  church  if  I  had 
consented,  but  I  did  not  wish  to  be  seen 
there,  especially  by  our  English  friends. 
So  we  waited  in  the  little  recess  just  out- 
side the  door,  well  out  of  the  way  of 
notice,  until  the  organ  ceased,  and  then 
we  walked  away.  The  street  was  very 
quiet  now,  for  all  were  in  the  church; 
and  we  were  silent  too.  And,  as  the 
night  was  cold,  although  bright,  we 
went  to  my  lodgings  and  played  together 
until  long  after  midnight.  Gecko  tried 
to  recall  some  themes  we  had  heard 
from  the  organ,  and  I  supplied  what  I 
could  remember,  but  it  was  not  "II  bel 
canto." 


MORITZ  SVENGALI. 


December  26th. 

THIS  is  a  different  atmosphere  and  a 
very  different  life  from  that  of  Porlisz. 
I  never  thought  I  should  escape  far 
enough  from  the  shadow  of  the  barred 
gates  of  the  "Street  "  to  attend  a  Christ- 
mas festival.  Yet  that  is  how  I  spent 
last  night.  The  further  a  man  wanders 
from  the  boundaries  of  his  early  preju- 
dices, the  more  he  wishes  to  explore.  I 
wish  I  knew  how  to  wholly  break  down 
the  barriers  between  the  studio  in  the 
Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts  and  myself. 
If  it  were  not  for  Trilby,  and  her  fond- 
ness for  the  little  artist  that  angers  me 
so,  it  would  be  easier. 

Last  night  I  saw  the  three  Englishmen 
at  their  best.  They  had  invited,  beside 


30  THE  DIARY  OF 

myself,  Durien  the  sculptor  from  their 
own  house,  and  Vincent  the  young 
American  student,  and  Dodor  and  Zou- 
zou,  two  young  soldiers,  and  Antony,  a 
Swiss,  and  others  whom  I  did  not  know. 
Gecko  was  with  me.  Our  welcome  was 
hearty,  and  all  the  spirit  of  the  evening 
was  kind  and  good.  I  came  nearer  to 
those  men  than  ever  before — nearer  than 
to  any  men.  We  were  all  good  com- 
rades, and  all  the  strife  of  different 
races  and  of  art  and  ambition  (except 
so  that  it  might  amuse  us)  was  left  out- 
side the  studio  door.  I  wonder  how 
much  of  this  life  there  is  in  the  world 
beyond  what  I  have  seen.  That  is  what 
one  does  not  always  discover  by  travel. 
No — I  will  not  comment.  The  boys 
were  young;  it  was  their  Christmas 
night  and  a  festival,  and  the  wine  was 
good  and  they  had  welcomed  Gecko  and 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  31 

myself  as  brothers,  and  that  is  much — is 
everything  to  one  who  has  heard  through 
his  father's  tales  the  "  Hep— Hep"  of 
the  mob  in  the  streets.  Trilby  and 
her  friend  Mme.  Angele  Boisse  and 
Mme.  Vinard  served  the  tables.  Ah, 
Trilby  !  Trilby !  I  would  give  all  my  life 
and  my  years  of  toil  at  music  if  you 
would  but  look  on  me  as  you  looked  on 
Little  Billee  last  night.  And  yet,  I 
know  not  how  it  was,  but  in  their  com- 
pany, amid  the  good  fellowship  of  the 
evening,  I  was  not  able  to  remember  my 
anger  against  him,  and  to-day  it  is  all 
sorrow.  I  wish  I  had  never  met  Trilby 
at  the  studio.  I  wish  I  had  lived  and 
died  in  the  slime  of  the  Ghetto,  and 
never  known  that  there  was  any  life 
outside  of  Porlisz.  That  is  the  misery 
of  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  bright  side 
of  life,  when  one  has  always  lived  in  its 


32  THE  DIARY  OF 

shadow.  The  after  days  are  more  bitter 
and  lonely  by  the  contrast.  But,  oh — if 
I  had  only  known  the  possibilities  of  life 
before  it  was  too  late!  If  only  some  one 
little  surrounding  had  drawn  up,  and 
not  all — all  crushed  down;  so  that  all — 
every  attempt  to  rise,  must  come  from 
within,  except  what  little  the  father  and 
mother  could  do,  and  they  had  so  little 
of  courage  or  strength  left  to  give,  after 
their  own  struggles — then — then — I  too 
might  have  been  erect  and  clear-eyed 
and  resolute,  and  had  the  bearing  to 
attract,  instead  of  only  the  art  that 
speaks  for  itself  but  not — not  always  for 
the  artist. 

One  thing  I  have  resolved.  I  will  not 
charm  Trilby  to  follow  me  if  she  loves 
Little  Billee.  It  is  sweet  to  hold  her 
even  for  a  moment  under  my  power,  so 
that  she  may  think  and  speak  only  what 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  33 

I  will.  It  is  my  only  advantage;  but  I 
will  give  it  up.  It  shall  be  a  fair  fight. 
He  is  young,  he  is  graceful  and  smooth- 
cheeked  and  has  the  carriage  of  an 
aristocrat.  It  cannot  be  expected  that 
the  eyes  of  a  girl  should  look  beyond 
the  wrinkles  and  scars  of  years,  and  see 
what  might  have  been  if  the  struggle 
had  been  less  fierce. 

The  little  fellow  was  excited  with 
wine  last  night,  but  in  very  good  spirits. 
We  boxed,  and  he  planted  a  blow 
straight  in  my  face  before  I  could  ward 
him  off.  I  was  trying  to  parry  his 
passes  without  hurt  to  him.  He  was 
too  flushed  to  really  spar  in  earnest. 
Afterward,  I  watched  him  as  he  started 
for  his  lodgings  in  the  Place  de  1'Odeon. 
I  fear  he  had  some  little  difficulty  in 
making  his  way  home;  but,  as  Dodor 
and  Zouzou  were  with  him,  I  thought 


34  THE  DIARY  OF 

one  of  them  would  be  sober  enough  to 
pilot  the  others. 

I  will  go  back  to  my  own  province  of 
music.  There  I  am  at  home.  It  is  a 
democracy  where  all  have  an  equal 
chance. 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  35 


January  $th,  185-. 

THERE  is  trouble  at  the  studio  in  the 
Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts;  and  Trilby 
has  gone.  Where,  I  do  not  know.  I 
met  Dodor.  He  first  told  me.  I  went 
to  see  her  friend  Mme.  Angele  Boisse 
in  the  Rue  des  Cloitres  Ste.  Pe'tronille. 
She  was  not  at  home.  I  was  in  terror 
of  what  might  have  happened  to  Trilby. 
I  had  made  myself  resigned  if  she  loved 
Little  Billee  and  not  me,  if  he  would 
care  for  her  and  love  her  as  I  would; 
but  not  to  let  her  lose  herself  like  this! 
I  went  to  the  studio,  and  found  that 
Little  Billee  was  sick  in  bed.  Two 
ladies,  his  mother  and  his  sister,  were 
nursing  him.  I  talked  to  Taffy  and  the 
Scotch-Englishman.  They  knew  noth- 


36  THE  DIARY  OF 

ing  of  where  Trilby  had  gone,  and  had 
done  nothing  to  find  her.  They  said 
she  wished  to  go  away  and  be  forgotten. 
Would  they  do  so  if  she  were  one  of 
their  own — if  she  were  the  sister?  I 
learned  from  Mme.  Vinard  that  there 
had  been  a  terrible  quarrel,  and  that  the 
mother  and  sister  and  a  queer  little  man, 
a  priest,  his  uncle,  came  to  prevent  the 
marriage  of  Little  Billee  to  Trilby.  It 
is  as  if  she  had  been  a  plaything — a 
fancy — and  now,  they  are  tired,  or  she 
is  in  the  way,  and  so  they  let  her  go. 
Anywhere — wherever  she  will.  Is  their 
life  so  full  over  there  that  they  can 
neglect  such  as  she? 

I  could  not  answer  what  I  thought. 
He  was  ill,  and  the  ladies  were  tending 
him;  and  the  others  seemed  to  be  think- 
ing only  of  him.  Now  I  will  find  her; 
and  if  I  do,  she  shall  be  mine— all  mine; 


MORITZ  SVENGALL  37 

and  I  will  never  again  think  that  I  must 
give  her  up  if  I  can  keep  her  in  any  way 
whatever — not  to  those  who  count  mat- 
ters of  convenience  of  so  much  impor- 
tance, and  her  of  so  little  value. 


38  THE  DIARY  OF 


January  loth. 

I  HAVE  spent  all  my  time  for  days 
searching  for  Trilby.  It  is  not  to  be 
supposed  that  a  girl  would  know  where 
to  go  far  when  she  is  in  so  much  trouble. 
She  has  taken  her  brother,  little  Jeannot, 
with  her.  I  do  not  know  whether  Mme. 
Angele  Boisse  or  Mme.  Vinard  know 
where  she  has  gone.  If  either  of  them 
does  know,  she  refuses  to  tell. 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  39 


February  1st. 

I  HAVE  looked  for  Trilby  for  days  and 
days — all  the  time  I  have  free  to  myself, 
especially  on  the  other  side  of  the  City, 
as  I  have  thought  she  might  hide  there. 
Sometimes  I  have  visited  the  Morgue 
and  thought,  with  disgust  of  myself, 
how,  in  the  madness  of  my  jealousy,  I 
talked  to  her  of  this.  Each  time  I  have 
gone  there,  I  have  had  to  force  myself 
to  enter,  for  fear  of  what  I  might  find. 
This  morning  I  walked  through  the 
streets  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine  as 
long  as  I  was  able.  The  day  was  fine; 
but  it  has  been  all  one  to  me  for  weeks 
past.  This  evening  again,  before  I  kept 
my  engagement  with  Gecko,  I  walked 
up  and  down  all  the  streets  on  my  way. 


40  THE  DIARY  OF 

All  places  are  seven  times  as  far  by  my 
way  as  by  the  straight  path.  I  passed 
other  men  at  dusk,  going  to  their  homes 
where  their  wives  awaited  them.  I  won- 
der if  they  guessed  what  envious  eyes 
watched  them  as  they  hurried  along.  If 
Trilby  would  wait  for  me  some  day,  I 
would  forgive  all  the  hardships  of  my 
life  that  is  past.  I  would  be  satisfied, 
even  if  it  were  but  for  a  few  years. 


MORITZ  SVENGALL 


February  $th. 

MME.  BOISSE  has,  at  last,  acknowl- 
edged that  she  knows  where  Trilby  is. 
She  is  at  Vibraye.  I  have  written  her 
and  will  write  again  in  a  day  or  two;  and 
will  go  and  fetch  her  as  soon  as  she  will 
come  away. 


42  THE  DIARY  OF 

February  2Oth. 

TRULY,  as  the  mother  said,  "It  is 
good  that  a  man  should  both  hope  and 
wait  patiently." 

Three  nights  ago  I  played  at  a  concert 
which  Gecko  and  I  had  arranged  with 
two  or  three  other  friends.  It  was  late 
when  I  reached  my  lodgings,  and  I  threw 
myself  on  my  bed,  too  tired  to  write 
again  that  night.  I  had  hoped  for 
a  letter  from  Trilby  by  this  time;  but 
there  was  none.  So  I  fell  asleep,  won- 
dering whether  she  might  not  have  come 
back  to  the  studio,  and  planning  to  call 
there  in  the  morning  and  inquire.  It 
must  have  been  near  morning  when  I  was 
awakened  by  a  knock  at  my  door;  and, 
when  I  opened  it,  there,  on  the  thresh- 
old, stood  Trilby.  It  all  seemed  so 
natural — as  though  there  could  have 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  43 

been  no  other  end  to  my  search.  She 
was  disguised  in  man's  clothing,  and 
was  very  weak  and  hungry.  She  had 
been  to  my  old  lodging  in  the  Rue  Tire- 
Liard,  and  from  there  had  followed  me 
to  the  Rue  des  Saints  Peres.  I  found 
her  some  bread  and  butter  and  coffee, 
and  she  ate  and  drank  ravenously — and 
then  she  slept — slept  for  two  days  and 
two  nights;  while  I  watched  and  waited 
for  her  to  wake,  and  Gecko  took  my 
place  or  found  someone — I  know  not 
whom — to  do  it  for  me  when  I  should 
have  played.  I  care  not  whether  my 
place  was  filled  at  all  or  not,  for  now  she 
is  mine — wholly  mine.  It  is  to  me  she 
has  come,  and  not  to  the  Place  St. 
Anatole  des  Arts;  and  I  did  not  charm 
her  or  draw  her  to  me  in  any  way,  but 
she  came  of  her  own  free  will;  and  they 
can  never  take  her  away  from  me  again. 


44  THE  DIARY  OF 


February  2jd. 

TRILBY  has  rested  herself  and  is 
stronger,  although  still  very  weak.  She 
has  told  me  of  her  meeting  with  Mme. 
Bagot,  Little  Billee's  mother,  and  of 
what  passed  between  them  and  of  all  her 
wanderings.  I  was  right.  She  did  love 
Little  Billee,  and  would  have  married 
him  but  for  his  mother  coming  and  per- 
suading her.  She  seems  to  have  no 
bitterness;  but  only  to  be  very  grieved 
and  yet  tender  in  her  feelings  toward 
them  all.  I  would  want  to  kill;  but  she 
is  an  angel.  She  says  she  would  never 
have  come  back  to  Paris  had  not  her 
little  brother  died  at  Vibraye;  and  she, 
poor  girl!  was  almost  crazed  with  grief. 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  45 

He  was  all  she  had  left  to  her.  So  she 
wandered  back  to  Paris  in  a  man's  dress, 
so  that  she  should  be  safer  from  interfer- 
ence; and  when  she  reached  here,  knew 
not  where  else  to  go,  and  finally  came  to 
me.  When  she  is  sufficiently  well  and 
strong,  we  will  leave  Paris  and  go  to 
Germany;  or,  perhaps,  even  back  to 
Porlisz;  away  from  all  thought  of  the 
studio  in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts; 
and  there  she  will  forget  and  grow  happy 
and  light-hearted  again.  And  I — I  am 
happy  every  day  and  every  hour  when 
she  is  near  me.  I  did  not  know  there 
was  so  much  happiness  in  the  world. 
When  I  go  out,  I  am  anxious  until  I 
come  back,  and  hurry  in  to  be  sure  it  is 
all  true  and  she  is  still  there.  Was  this 
what  all  those  men  knew  whom  I  saw 
hastening  home  at  evening  when  I  was 
searching  for  Trilby?  I  do  not  wonder 


46  THE  DIARY  OF 

they  walked  quickly  and  eagerly;  I  too 
hasten  to  reach  our  home,  like  other 
men,  now  that  she  is  there,  waiting  for 
me. 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  47 


March  2d. 

TO-DAY  we  saw  Paris  fade  away  behind 
us.  The  Paris  that  I  so  long  desired  in 
vain  to  see,  and,  when  I  saw  it,  found  to 
exceed  my  highest  expectations.  And 
yet  I  am  glad  to  see  it  disappear,  for  I 
am  taking  with  me  Trilby,  the  best 
reward  of  my  sojourn  there.  Her  spirits 
rose  as  we  got  away  from  the  city  and 
into  the  fields  beyond;  and  by  the  time 
the  last  glimpse  had  disappeared,  she 
seemed  almost  like  her  old  self.  It  is 
the  shadow  of  the  old  life,  and  the 
haunting  memory  of  the  studio  in  the 
Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts,  she  is  escap- 
ing, and  I  think  she  is  anxious  to  blot 
them  all  out.  I  will  see  to  it  very  care- 
fully that  nothing  reminds  her  of  her 
three  artist  friends.  It  is  not  well  for 


48  THE  DIARY  OF 

either  of  us  that  those  memories  should 
be  revived.  She  has  told  me  much  of 
her  old  life  and  of  her  father  and  mother. 
Her  mother  was  a  bar-maid  at  the  Mon- 
tagnards  £cossais  in  the  Rue  du  Paradis 
Poissonniere;  and  her  father  was  an 
English  clerical,  who  drank  and  gambled 
and  lost  his  standing.  Dodor,  who  was 
at  school  in  England,  tells  me  that  there 
seems  to  be  an  inexplicable  tendency 
among  Englishmen  of  that  class  to  marry 
barmaids,  if  they  can  only  free  them- 
selves from  their  social  prejudices  suffi- 
ciently to  do  so.  Her  mother's  father 
was  also  an  aristocrat — the  Honorable 
Colonel  Desmond.  He  deserted  Trilby's 
grandmother,  and  left  her  to  shift  for 
herself  and  his  daughter,  then  a  little 
child.  Under  the  circumstances,  I  am 
not  surprised  that  Trilby  did  not  return 
to  the  studio. 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  49 

I  am  going  back  to  the  places  I  have 
hated ;  but  that  is  nothing.  I  can  visit 
them  with  indifference  now.  Trilby  is 
with  me,  and  all  else  counts  for  nothing. 
Two  can  bear  with  courage  and  even 
laughter  what  would  crush  the  spirit  of 
one  alone.  Besides,  I  have  learned  that 
Porlisz,  and  even  Vienna  and  Warsaw, 
are  not  all  the  world.  Provincial  gran- 
dees cannot  hurt  one  who  is  freed  from 
their  influence  by  a  taste  of  the  broader 
life  of  Paris.  I  can  afford  to  smile  at 
their  childish  airs  and  pretenses.  They 
may  be  amusing  or  even,  sometimes, 
annoying;  but  they  cannot  overawe. 


50  THE  DIARY  OF 


March  25th. 

TRILBY  gains  every  day.  She  is 
amused,  and  her  thoughts  are  distracted 
from  herself  by  the  novelty  of  the  life 
about  her;  she  is  trying  to  pick  up  some 
of  the  language.  Gecko  has  joined  us. 
He  is  to  rest  and  to  see  his  people  before 
he  goes  back  to  Paris. 


MORITZ  SVENGAL1.  5* 


April  3Oth. 

ALL  who  hear  Trilby  speak  say  it  is  so 
unfortunate  that  she  cannot  sing.  Many 
will  not  believe  that  it  is  impossible.  I 
cannot  let  her  even  attempt  it  for  them; 
it  would  only  expose  her  to  ridicule, 
since  she  does  not  appreciate  her  own 
inability.  I  have  tried  to  teach  her;  but 
she  cannot  distinguish  one  note  from 
another.  I  thought,  in  Paris,  that  per- 
haps it  was  lack  of  opportunity;  but  no 
— it  is  fundamental.  She  can  never 
learn. 


52  THE  DIARY  OF 


May  i$th. 

GECKO  was  with  us  again  to-day  on  his 
way  back  to  Paris.  He  has  made  a  sug- 
gestion; or  rather  it  came  to  us  both. 
We  were  speaking  of  Trilby's  voice — how 
it  is  like  a  great  organ  with  no  one  to 
play  upon  it;  but  every  now  and  then, 
when  she  speaks,  it  is  as  if  a  child  came 
and  touched  a  note,  and  one  longs  to 
hear  it  in  the  hands  of  a  master.  He 
urged  me  to  try  once  more  to  teach  her 
to  sing  at  least  simple  melodies;  but  I 
told  him  how  hopeless  it  was,  and  how 
she  tried  to  please  me  but  could  not 
understand  wherein  she  came  short,  and 
so  fretted  over  it  and  thought  me  un- 
reasonable and  cruel.  He  reminded  me 
how  I  brought  Fredro,  a  fellow-student 


MORITZ  SVENGALL  53 

at  Leipsic,  so  under  my  influence  by  a 
few  passes  that  he  followed  the  move- 
ment of  my  hand  upon  the  keyboard  and 
actually  struck  several  notes  in  succes- 
sion correctly.  .  .  I  am  to  try  if  I  can- 
not control  Trilby's  voice  through  my 
own  will  while  she  is  under  my  influence, 
so  that  I  may  sing  through  her  lips. 
Perhaps,  in  time,  I  can  so  train  her 
voice  that  she  may  come  to  understand 
and  really  sing  herself. 


54  THE  DIARY  OF 


May  i6th. 

IT  can  be  done;  at  least  to  some 
extent.  How  much  of  practical  result 
we  may  be  able  to  accomplish  remains 
to  be  seen.  Gecko  will  not  return  to 
Paris  immediately;  but  will  stay  with  us 
for  a  time  at  least.  He  is  most  sanguine 
of  success — more  so  than  I  am  myself. 
I  do  not  know  whether  he  is  more  en- 
thusiastic as  a  musician  or  as  an  admirer 
of  Trilby,  whom  he  is  impatient  to  see 
upon  the  platform.  He  does  not  remem- 
ber that  she  will  be  unconscious  of  her 
triumph,  even  if  we  succeed,  and  that 
she  does  not  value  musical  achievement 
as  we  do. 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  55 


December  I5th,  185-. 
TO-DAY  Trilby  made  her  first  appear- 
ance in  public.  What  she  sang,  she  has 
rehearsed  with  me  over  and  over  again. 
How  often  she  does  not  know  herself. 
The  success  was  beyond  all  that  we  had 
dared  to  hope.  The  audience  was  actu- 
ally frantic  with  enthusiasm.  Men  and 
women  wept  with  delight.  Again  and 
again  they  thronged  to  the  platform 
and  begged  for  but  one  more  song.  Some 
tore  off  their  jewels  and  threw  them  at 
her  feet.  Now  she  sleeps.  She  has 
borne  the  strain  of  the  constant  practice 
well.  I  will  watch  until  she  wakes;  for 
I  am  anxious  to  know  whether  the  singing 
is  too  much  for  her.  If  she  is  strong 
enough,  we  will  go  to  Vienna  after  a  few 
more  concerts  in  the  smaller  towns,  and 
then  on  to  St.  Petersburg. 


56  THE  DIARY  OF 


October  2d,  185-. 

TO-MORROW  we  leave  for  Paris.  It  is 
almost  five  years  since  we  traveled  that 
road.  They  have  been  years  of  labor 
and  anxiety  and,  at  last,  of  triumph. 
There  is  no  limit  to  the  admiration  and 
applause  that  greet  Trilby  wherever  she 
appears.  Warsaw,  Vienna,  St.  Peters- 
burg— all  the  eastern  cities.  We  have 
thoroughly  tested  her  powers;  and  her 
fame  has  preceded  her  to  Paris. 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  57 


October  5th. 

TRILBY  and  I  are  at  the  Hotel  Bertrand. 
Our  return  to  Paris  has  been  quite  dif- 
ferent from  our  departure.  Now  her 
name  is  everywhere,  and  she  is  just  the 
same  as  when  she  stole  through  the 
streets  disguised  as  a  boy,  to  escape 
observation.  No — I  hope  not  just  the 
same.  She  still  speaks  of  the  little 
artist;  but  I  have  lately  thought  that  the 
remembrance  was  growing  dim.  Some- 
times I  fear  that  it  was  a  mistake  to  come 
back  to  the  old  surroundings,  but  her 
fame  demanded  it.  The  whole  city 
waits  to  hear  her  next  week  at  the  Cirque 
des  Bashibazoucks. 

This  morning  she  was  tired  from  the 
journey;  so,  after  my  bath  and  a  cup  of 


58  THE  DIARY  OF 

coffee,  I  left  her  resting  at  the  hotel  and 
wandered  into  the  old  quarter. 

I  would  not  have  dared  to  take  her 
with  me,  even  had  she  been  able  to  go; 
and  Gecko  was  away  with  some  other 
friends,  so  I  was  alone.  First  I  went  to 
my  old  lodgings  in  the  Rue  Tire-Liard 
and  then  to  the  Rue  des  Saints  Peres, 
where  Trilby  came  to  me.  The  room 
was  vacant,  and  I  went  in  and  pictured 
her  as  she  stood  that  night  in  the  door- 
way. I  wonder  where  she  would  have 
been  now  if  she  had  not  found  me,  or  if 
some  Honorable  Colonel  Desmond  had 
been  her  protector.  Now  she  sleeps 
well-cared  for  at  the  hotel,  and  shall 
never  wander  away  again  or  be  hungry 
or  cold  while  I  live  to  care  for  her.  The 
studio  in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts 
was  also  vacant.  It  was  stripped  of 
every  vestige  of  furnishing,  and  was 


MORITZ  SVENGALL  59 

vastly  different  from  the  bright  and 
cheerful  room  of  Christmas  night  of  five 
years  ago.  I  could  have  been  good 
friends  with  its  tenants  if  only  circum- 
stances had  allowed.  I  wonder  what  has 
become  of  them.  I  can  see  Taffy  and 
Little  Billee  yet  splashing  about  in  their 
tubs.  Some  of  the  habits  of  one's  youth 
are  hard  to  change;  but,  as  for  the  com- 
forts and  luxuries  of  life,  it  is  easy  to 
accustom  one's  self  to  them  when  oppor- 
tunity comes. 


60  THE  DIARY  OF 


October  I2th. 

THE  past  five  years  were  but  the 
preparation  for  last  night.  It  was  the 
triumph  of  a  lifetime,  and  well  worth  all 
the  toil — all  the  privation — all  the  long 
years  of  waiting.  Never  before  has  such 
an  audience  greeted  a  singer.  Not  only 
Paris,  but  Germany,  the  provinces, 
London — all  were  there.  Down  near 
the  front  were  the  three  tenants  of  the 
old  studio.  Ah,  my  friends!  I  could 
have  welcomed  even  you  most  heartily 
if  it  had  been  safe.  Perhaps  some  day 
we  shall  be  able  to  understand  each  other 
better,  and  be  good  comrades,  if  only 
Trilby  can  forget,  You  see  it  was  not 
all  boasting.  I  tried  to  explain  my 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  6 1 

aspirations,  which  were  scarcely  hopes, 
but  could  not.  Is  it  not  something  to 
have  gathered  these  people  here  from 
all  countries?  Is  it  not  more  to  sway 
them  as  one  will?  And  more — much 
more — to  conciliate  their  good  will  so 
that  they  for  a  little  time  give  up  all 
their  prejudices,  and  forget  that  they 
are  French  or  English  or  whatever  they 
may  be,  and  that  I  am  a  Jew  of  Poland 
and  cannot  even  speak  so  that  they  will 
fully  understand  me,  except  through  the 
medium  of  my  art?  And  Trilby — she 
sang  as  never  before.  I  know  not 
whether  it  was  that  her  voice  was 
sweeter,  or  because  we  were  in  more 
perfect  sympathy.  So  that  they  might 
know  that  it  was  all  she,  and  not  the 
composer,  I  had  her  begin  with  "Au 
clair  de  la  Lune,"  and  all  the  glory  was 
hers.  It  made  no  difference  when  she 


62  THE  DIARY  OF 

sang  the  "  Nussbaum";  it  was  her  voice 
that  made  them  laugh  or  cry  as  we  willed. 
And  then  she  sang  "  Ben  Bolt  "  in  Eng- 
lish. I  know  not  why  I  had  selected 
that  song.  I  would  not  have  chosen  it 
if  I  had  known  the  audience  we  were  to 
have;  but  it  was  in  the  programme  as  I 
had  rehearsed  it  over  and  over  again 
with  Trilby,  and  I  did  not  dare  to  depart 
from  the  order  of  the  rehearsals.  I 
wonder  if  the  three  Englishmen  down  in 
the  front  row  remembered  how  she  first 
sang  that  song  to  us.  No  one  laughs  at 
her  singing  now.  Even  Litolff  would 
not  sneer  as  he  compared  her  with 
Mme.  Alboni  now.  Well,  messieurs, 
that  is  but  one  little  indication  of  a 
change  in  her  whole  position  which  I 
have  wrought.  If  only  she  could  have 
realized  it  all  herself,  and  rejoiced  with 
me  in  our  triumph,  my  happiness  would 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  63 

have  been  complete.  That  cannot  be- 
at least  not  yet;  but  she  shall  have  her 
share  of  the  benefits— yes,  all !  if  they  can 
give  her  any  pleasure. 


64  THE  DIARY  OF 


October  ijth. 

I  SAW  the  three  artists  again  to-day  in 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  With  our 
English  friends  the  appetite  for  the  air 
of  Bohemia  does  not  last  very  long.  It 
is  not  a  congenial  climate.  They  go 
back  to  their  beer  and  skittles  or  port 
and  fox-hunting — it  is  all  the  same — after 
a  very  short  excursion  into  foreign 
realms.  An  Englishman  is  an  English- 
man before  he  is  a  citizen  of  any  broader 
country.  I  wonder  whether  it  is  be- 
cause they  find  their  own  ways  so  infi- 
nitely better  than  others,  or  because  the 
routine  of  established  customs  is  a  safe 
shield  behind  which  to  hide. 

I  hardly  knew  the  tenants  of  the  studio 
in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts,  in 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  65 

their  high  hats  and  stiff  frock-coats  and 
collars  that  kept  their  necks  from  bend- 
ing any  way  except  straight  to  the  right 
or  left.  The  easy  garb  and  manner  of 
the  days  of  the  Latin  Quarter  are  all 
gone.  The  big  Taffy  and  the  Scotch- 
Englishman  do  not  grow  old  gracefully. 
It  is  in  the  blood.  When  youth  and 
high  spirits  have  gone,  they  are  afraid  to 
leave  the  beaten  track.  They  are  not 
interesting  —  these  Englishmen  —  when 
they  have  passed  their  youth.  The 
Scotch-Englishman  carries  his  years  the 
better;  he  seems  to  me  as  though  he  a 
little  regretted  the  old  days,  and  would  go 
back  if  he  could ;  but  the  other  seems  per- 
fectly contented  with  the  present;  but 
neither  of  them  is  the  man  of  five 
years  ago.  I  wonder  if  they  still  get 
tipsy  at  night  as  in  the  old  days;  and  if 
their  fine  dreams  have  all  gone,  just  as 


66  THE  DIARY  OF 

their  chivalry  vanished  the  night  Trilby 
disappeared.  Well,  my  friends,  I — 
Svengali — have,  at  least  done  what  I 
purposed,  although  not  exactly  in  the 
way  I  expected.  Yet  there  is  still  one 
trouble:  if  only  I  were  not  so  spent  with 
the  fight.  One  pays  a  high  price  for  suc- 
cess, if  he  has  to  come  all  the  way  from 
the  bottom.  What  if  Trilby  should  have 
the  old  fancy  return,  and  all  my  years  of 
toil  be  as  nothing!  Will  she?  Ah,  my 
little  artist — I  will  see  to  it  that  it  is  not 
easy  for  you  to  renew  the  acquaintance. 
It  is  not  the  present  I  fear;  but  the  mem- 
ory that  never  dies  in  some  natures. 


MORITZ  Sl'ENGALI.  67 


October  ifth. 

THE  applause  last  night  was  louder 
and  longer  than  ever  before.  The 
enthusiasm  was  almost  terrifying— it  was 
like  madness.  I  was  forced  to  bring 
Trilby  forward  repeatedly.  I  could  not 
let  her  sing  again,  for  I  feared  it  would 
be  too  much  for  her  strength.  As  I 
kissed  her  hand  and  led  her  from  the 
stage  the  last  time,  it  all  came  over  me 
like  a  torrent.  What  a  pity,  what  a 
shame  that  this  is  not  all  as  it  seems — 
that  she  is  not  herself  the  artist  singing 
with  her  heart  as  well  as  with  her  voice! 
To-day  I  heard  a  man  say,  "  Think 
what  she  must  have  in  her  heart  and 
brain  only  to  sing  like  that  !  "  She  has 
it  all  in  her  heart  and  brain,  but  yet  what 


68  THE  DIARY  OF 

they  hear  is  not  that,  but  only  her  voice 
guided  by  my  heart  and  brain.  Oh,  if 
she  could  but  once  feel  the  glory  of  the 
power  as  the  people  hang  upon  her 
lightest  note,  and  laugh  or  weep  as  they 
follow  the  music  of  her  voice ! 

I  could  scarcely  wait  until  we  reached 
the  hotel  to  try  to  make  her  follow  of 
her  own  accord,  as  I  played  the  music 
she  had  just  sang.  I  urged  her  to  try. 
She  said,  "Why  do  you  ask  me?  You 
know  I  cannot  sing,  any  more  than  I 
could  in  the  old  days  at  "the  studio; 
although,  sometimes,  I  dream  I  can." 
Nevertheless,  she  did  her  best  to  please 
me.  I  too  did  all  I  could  in  the  desper- 
ate hope  of  escaping  from  this  position, 
which  every  day  grows  more  intolerable. 
It  was  useless.  At  last  she  came  and 
sat  on  the  arm  of  my  chair,  and  said; 
"I  would  do  anything  I  could  for  you; 


MORITZ  SVENGAL1.  69 

but  I  am  afraid  I  can  never  learn  to  sing; 
and  you — you  poor  dear — are  foolish  to 
waste  your  time  on  me."  Then  she 
spoke  of  the  old  days,  and  of  Taffy  and 
of  McAllister  and,  last  of  all,  of  Little 
Billee — until  I  could  bear  it  no  longer, 
and  seized  her  hand  and  covered  it  with 
kisses  and  cried,  "  Will  you  never  forget 
that  man?  What  has  he  done  that  you 
should  carry  his  image  forever  and  keep 
back  from  me  some  return  for  the  con- 
stant and  sincere  love  I  have  given  you 
all  these  years?"  She  did, not  answer 
for  a  time,  but  sat  looking  far  away. 
Then  she  put  her  hand  caressingly  on 
my  shoulder  and  said;  "Come,  let  us 
watch  the  lights!  How  far  down  the 
street  you  can  see  them  from  this  balcony 
— this  is  better  than  my  old  room  in  the 
Rue  des  Pousse-Cailloux.  You  must  be- 
lieve that  I  am  thankful  for  all  you  have 


7<>  THE  DIARY  OF 

done  for  me;  but  do  not  let  us  talk  of 
those  things  now." 

So  I  am  more  than  ever  in  torment, 
and  wholly  at  a  loss  what  to  do.  I  can- 
not stop,  and  I  dread  to  go  on. 


MORITZ  SVENGALI. 


October  ijth. 

THE  three  artists  are  at  a  hotel  near 
us.  I  am  anxious,  and  cannot  keep  my 
thoughts  away  from  them.  To-day  I  saw 
them  at  dinner.  They  show  the  changes 
that  have  taken  place  in  the  past  few 
years,  even  more  at  their  table  than  in 
their  walk  and  costume.  Ah,  messieurs! 
there  has  been  too  much  of  that  Char- 
treuse and  Rhum  de  la  Jamai'que  and 
Ratafia  de  Cassis,  or  those  gills  would 
not  be  so  red  and  coarse  nor  the  face  so 
shiny.  Be  wary  with  that  salad,  Mr. 
Taffy.  This  is  the  time  of  life  that 
marks  the  difference  between  the  true 
artist  and  the  Englishman. 

With  me  also  the  early  manner  cannot 
die.  What  is  born  in  us  will  persist  even 


72  THE  DIARY  OF 

after  we  think  it  is  all  forgotten.  I  have 
wandered  about  for  hours,  and  am  spent 
with  rage  and  shame  and  anger  and 
humiliation — and  hate — hate — hate— for 
the  little  artist  who  got  without  asking 
what  I  gathered  up  and  saved  when  he  let 
it  fall,  and  now  has  come  with  his  friends 
to  take  it  from  me  again;  and  I  must 
watch  and  watch  and  guard  so  that 
Trilby,  whom  I  have  taught  and  worked 
for  and  loved,  does  not  even  know  that 
they  are  here;  for  I  feel,  I  know,  that 
all  my  work  and  love  will  be  as  nothing, 
and  Trilby  will  be  gone,  and  I  will  be 
alone  again.  It  makes  me  mad!  I  am 
crazy  with  apprehension !  To-day  I  met 
the  little  artist  in  the  post  office  of  the 
hotel,  and  all  the  rage  and  despair  of 
years  blazed  up.  I  had  not  slept  for 
nights,  planning  that  they  should  not 
meet.  Why  should  they?  Had  he  kept 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  73 

to  her  like  a  man  when  she  loved  him? 
Had  he  found  her  cast  out  homeless  in 
the  streets,  and  taken  her  in  and  cared 
for  her?  Had  he  gone  without,  that  she 
might  not  feel  privation;  and  invented 
excuses,  that  she  might  not  know  that 
what  little  he  could  give  her  was  not 
easily  supplied?  It  was  nothing — noth- 
ing but  welcome,  to  me,  that  I  should 
have  the  chance  to  do  it;  but  he  had  the 
opportunity  before  all  that,  and  let  it 
pass.  And  now  why  should  he  come  to 
spoil  my  last  hope  of  happiness?  He 
has  other  friends  at  his  home  in  England. 
Can  he  not  find  someone  among  them  to 
please  his  mother  and  his  uncle  and  all 
his  other  relatives,  and  leave  me  her — my 
only  hope?  Oh,  Trilby!  Trilby!  If  only 
I  were  still  young  and  not  worn  with 
labor  and  privation!  If  only  I  too  had 
been  always  accustomed  to  the  honors 


74  THE  DIARY  OF 

and  noble  surroundings  of  life!  Then  I 
too  could  be  calm  and  confident  and  easy 
in  my  mind  and  bearing.  It  all  came  to 
me  as  I  passed  him;  and,  like  a  beast — 
yes,  like  a  dog  from  the  mud  of  the 
Ghettos — before  I  knew  it,  I  had  spat  in 
his  face.  Would  that  I  had  struck  him 
or  insulted  him  in  any  way  but  that,  if  I 
must.  And  then  there  was  a  struggle  on 
the  stairs,  and  the  big  Taffy  came,  and 
took  his  friend's  part;  and  here,  before 
me,  is  his  card;  and  I  cannot  finish  the 
quarrel  as  I  would;  for  that  would  bring 
it  all  to  Trilby's  ears,  and  she  would 
know  that  they  are  here,  and  then — oh! 
If  I  only  knew  whether  the  old  regard 
for  the  little  one  is  really  strong  enough 
to  take  her  from  me!  Then  I  should 
know  what  to  do. 


MORITZ  SVENGALL  75 


January  loth,  185-. 

WE  have  been  in  London  two  days. 
Trilby  is  well,  but  pensive  and  distrait. 
I  am  fearful,  and  wish  we  had  never 
left  Germany.  The  constant  effort  is 
beginning  to  tell  upon  me.  When  one 
has  been  swimming  alone  so  long,  he 
needs  a  little  support  sometimes,  even 
if  it  be  but  for  a  moment. 

I  saw  the  little  artist  on  the  street  to- 
day. He  is  regarded  as  a  great  painter 
here.  His  painting,  "  The  Moon  Dial," 
is  in  the  window  at  Moses  Lyon's  in 
Upper  Conduit  Street.  Ah,  Master  Little 
Billee!  it  is  easy  to  be  great  in  one's 
own  world,  if  you  only  pick  out  your 
world  aright;  but  to  compel  unwilling 


THE  DIARY  OF 


attention  and  win  begrudged  applause; 
that  is  not  the  achievement  of  adilettant 
Englishman;  that  is  the  work  of  genius 
and  of  a  lifetime. 


MORITZ  SFENGALT.  77 


January  I2th. 

I  WISH  I  knew  whether  Trilby  is  still 
really  fond  of  the  little  artist  or  would 
care  for  him  if  they  should  meet  again. 
Sometimes  I  try  to  consider  that  he  has 
done  me  no  wrong,  except  that  Trilby 
loved  him.  Then  again,  I  rage  and  am 
angry  with  him  and  with  her  and  with 
all  the  world;  and  I  walk  up  and  down 
the  streets  for  hours  and  hours  and 
hours,  until  I  am  weak  and  exhausted; 
and  then  I  come  back  to  Trilby,  and  she 
is  all  sweetness,  and  I  know  she  can  never 
go  back  to  the  old  life.  How  can  she 
care  for  those  who  let  her  wander  away 
alone?  Now  everyone  is  speaking  of  her, 
and  the  shop-windows  are  full  of  her 
photographs;  but  how  would  it  have 


78  THE  DIARY  OF 

been  if  she  had  come  to  London  as  she 
left  Paris  with  her  little  brother  five 
years  ago?  But  nevertheless,  while  it 
lasts,  my  head  throbs,  and  all  the  old 
passions  come  back,  and  it  is  death  to  let 
this  jealousy  walk  the  streets  with  me  so 
many  nights. 


MOR1TZ  SVENGALI.  79 


January  i$th. 

I  AM  so  broken  with  disgust  and 
despair  that  I  know  not  what  to  do. 
Ever  since  I  met  the  little  artist  and  his 
friend  Taffy  in  Paris  last  October,  I  can- 
not sleep;  or,  if  I  doze,  I  awake  in  an 
agony  of  rage  and  shame.  For  days  I 
have  been  half  mad  with  apprehension 
and  jealousy,  fearing  that  she  may  meet 
him,  or  that  the  English  speech  may 
arouse  all  the  old  affection.  I  am  not 
myself.  It  is  because  the  struggle  has 
been  too  hard  and  long,  and  I  am  failing. 
To-day  during  the  rehearsal,  I  was  short- 
tempered  and  irritable;  and,  in  a  moment 
of  sudden  anger,  I  struck  Trilby  with 
the  little  wand  with  which  I  lead.  It 
was  but  a  tap  to  draw  her  attention. 


80  THE  DIARY  OF 

Gecko  sprang  upon  me  and  struck  me 
with  a  small  knife.  He  was  right,  and 
yet  no  one  need  defend  Trilby  from  me: 
I  would  give  my  life  for  her.  Yet  he 
was  right;  but,  with  what  I  was  bearing 
before,  the  little  wound  is  too  much,  and 
I  am  forbidden  to  lead  for  the  present, 
and  so  the  opening  concert  must  be  post- 
poned. Gecko,  poor  fellow!  is  pros- 
trated with  grief.  I  will  be  all  right  in  a 
few  days.  Of  course  Trilby  cannot  sing 
without  me,  so,  if  I  am  not  able  to  appear 
very  soon,  I  shall  take  my  place  in  the 
box  nearest  the  stage  and  from  there,  I 
think,  I  can  control  her  voice — at  least 
we  have  arranged  to  try  it. 


MORITZ  SVENGALL  8 1 


January  i6th. 

I  NEED  not  have  feared  for  Trilby. 
She  has  not  left  my  side  for  a  mo- 
ment. .  .  To-day  I  was  allowed  to 
attend  a  rehearsal.  We  tried  the  ar- 
rangement by  which  I  am  to  lead  from 
the  box  where  Trilby  can  see  me.  It 
succeeds  perfectly. 


82  THE  DIARY  OF 


January  2^d. 

AND  this  is  what  I  promised  Trilby  in 
the  studio  in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des 
Arts.  I  only  half  believed — no — I  did 
not  really  believe  it  at  all  when  I  spoke. 
It  was  only  a  parable,  a  way  of  telling 
what  I  actually  did  hope,  which  was  far 
less.  The  distance  was  too  great;  yet  it 
is  certain  we  are  here.  There  will  be 
no  lack  of  Prinzessen,  Comtessen,  and 
Serene  English  Altessen  there  at  the 
Drury  Lane  Theater  to-night:  but  it  is 
not  the  Prinzessen,  Comtessen,  or  the 
Serene  Altessen  that  I  shall  see.  It  is 
Trilby!  Trilby!  Trilby!  and  it  is  the 
music  of  her  voice  that  I  shall  hear,  and 
not  the  name  "Svengali!"  "Svengali!" 
It  kills  me  that  I  do  not  know  what  she 
would  feel  and  do  if  I  should  leave  her  to 


MORITZ  SVENGALI.  83 

herself  for  a  time.  When  this  season  is 
over,  we  will  go  to  Prague  or  to  Warsaw 
or  Vienna,  where  the  little  artist  cannot 
come,  and  there  will  be  nothing  to 
remind  her  of  him  or  his  friends,  and  we 
will  rest  and  live  with  the  people,  and  she 
shall  learn  that  I  can  love  without  ambi- 
tion. The  music  is  good,  and  the  gain 
and  the  applause — but — she,  although 
she  does  not  realize  it,  has  worked  hard 
and  is  tired,  and  my  strength  is  almost 
gone.  I  must  take  care  of  myself  if  I  am 
even  to  complete  this  engagement. 

I  did  not  guess  that,  after  I  had  come 
all  the  way,  I  should  discover  that  the 
goal  was  with  me  all  the  time.  Ah, 
well — I  had  to  take  the  whole  journey  to 
find  it  out.  Still— it  has  been  a  very 
long  way  from  Porlisz  to  London,  and  I 
am  very  tired  to-night.  How  Marta 
would  stare  if  she  knew  that  I  should 


84          THE  DIARY  OF  MORITZ  SVENGALI. 

almost  prefer  the  little  attic  room  in  the 
old  house  in  the  Judenstrasse,  and  that 
worn  red  beret  yonder  that  I  wonder 
why  I  have  kept,  to  the  glare  and 
applause  of  Drury  Lane!  It  is  not  the 
horizontal  distance  that  is  hardest  to 
travel.  It  is  the  ascent  that  leaves  a 
man  breathless  and  panting  until,  per- 
haps, he  drops  dead  on  the  topmost  step. 

It  is  time  to  go  to  the  theater.  I  must 
shake  off  this  weakness  and  prepare. 
Yes,  let  it  be  "Svengali!"  "  Svengali!  " 
"Svengali!"  the  people  shout  to-night. 
It  will  be  as  her  name,  not  as  mine,  they 
will  repeat  it,  and  I  am  glad  it  is  so. 
That  is  a  longer  way  than  the  other,  and 
I  know  not  how  I  came  it. 


THE  publication  of  the  foregoing 
extracts  from  Svengali's  diary  has  been 
especially  desired  by  his  friends  in  view 
of  popular  misconceptions  of  his  charac- 
ter which  have  been  caused  by  a  work 
entitled  "Trilby." 

That  book  was  written  by  Mr.  George 
du  Maurier,  a  friend  of  the  English  artist 
William  Bagot,  who  is  usually  referred  to 
by  Mr.  du  Maurier,  as  well  as  by  Svengali 
in  the  foregoing  pages,  as  "  Little 
Billee." 

It  will  be  readily  understood  that 
neither  Mr.  du  Maurier's  national  pref- 
erences nor  his  friendship  for  Mr.  Bagot 
would  be  likely  to  lead  him  to  regard 
Svengali  favorably;  and,  in  spite  of  his 
85 


86 

desire  to  be  just,  this  attitude  is  very 
plainly  shown  in  his  estimate  of  Sven- 
gali's  character  as  given  in  "  Trilby,"  as 
published  by  Harper  &  Brothers,  pages 
ii  and  12  and  57  to  60:  yet,  even  from 
this  unfriendly  source,  we  gather  the  fol- 
lowing tributes  to  the  character  and 
genius  of  this  remarkable  man: 

Page  62:  "And  then  he  set  himself  to 
teach  her  [Honorine]  kindly  and  pa- 
tiently at  first." 

Page  258:  "He's  an  immense  artist, 
and  a  great  singing  master." 

Page  315:  "Just  as  the  clock  struck, 
Svengali,  in  irreproachable  evening 
dress,  tall  and  stout  and  quite  splendid 
in  appearance,  notwithstanding  his  long 
black  mane  (which  had  been  curled), 
took  his  place  at  his  desk.  Our  friends 
would  have  known  him  at  a  glance,  in 
spite  of  the  wonderful  alteration  time 


87 

and  prosperity  had  wrought  in  his  out- 
ward man." 

Page  324:  Little  Billee  feels  "  A  crush- 
ing sense  of  his  own  infinitesimal  signifi- 
cance by  the  side  of  this  glorious  pair  of 
artists,  one  of  whom  had  been  his  friend 
and  the  other  his  love " 

Page  337:  "And  what  must  be  her 
love  for  the  man  who  had  taught  her  and 
trained  her,  and  revealed  her  towering 
genius  to  herself  and  to  the  world! — a 
man  resplendent  also,  handsome  and  tall 
and  commanding — a  great  artist  from  the 
crown  of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot!" 

Page  37 1 :  "  He  had  for  his  wife,  slave, 
and  pupil,  a  fierce,  jealous  kind  of  affec- 
tion that  was  a  source  of  endless  torment 
to  him." 

Page  387:  Trilby  says,  "He  was  al- 
ways very  kind,  poor  Svengali.  .  .  .  He 
was  kindness  itself  always." 


Page  392:  "  He  could  be  very  funny, 
Svengali,  though  he  was  German,  poor 
dear!  .  .  .  Poor  Marta!  Poor  Gecko! 
What  will  they  ever  do  without  Sven- 
gali? " 

Page  393:  "I  always  had  the  best  of 
everything.  He  insisted  on  that — even 
if  he  had  to  go  without  himself." 

Page  428:  Trilby  did  not  remember 
when  and  where  and  by  whom  her 
trinkets  were  given  her  "Except  a  few 
that  Svengali  had  given  her  himself,  with 
many  passionate  expressions  of  his  love, 
which  seems  to  have  been  deep  and  con- 
stant and  sincere." 

Page  430:  "  At  Trilby's  request  it  was 
opened,  and  found  to  contain  a  large 
photograph,  framed  and  glazed,  of  Sven- 
gali, in  the  military  uniform  of  his  own 
Hungarian  band,  and  looking  straight 
out  of  the  picture,  straight  at  you.  He 


was  standing  at  his  desk,  with  his  left 
hand  turning  over  a  leaf  of  music,  and 
waving  his  baton  with  his  right.  It  was 
a  splendid  photograph,  by  a  Viennese 
photographer,  and  a  most  speaking  like- 
ness; and  Svengali  looked  truly  fine — all 
made  up  of  importance  and  authority, 
and  his  big  black  eyes  were  full  of  stern 
command." 

Page  432:  "He  was  very  handsome,  I 
think;  that  uniform  becomes  him  very 
well." 

Page  452;  Gecko  says:  "Svengali  was 
the  greatest  artist  I  ever  met!  .  .  . 
He  found  me  playing  in  the  streets  for 
copper  coins,  and  took  me  by  the  hand, 
and  was  my  only  friend,  and  taught  me 
all  I  ever  knew." 


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